Michael Shayne's Long Chance

Brett Halliday

Michael Shayne’s Long Chance

MICHAEL SHAYNE’S GRAY EYES were bleak, his face was set in gaunt lines, his bushy red brows were drawn together over a vertical furrow which had deepened during the past two months. He dumped the last of the junk from the steel filing cabinet into a huge cardboard box. The battered oak desk was cleared of a useless accumulation of papers and what-not, and the small first-floor apartment which had served him as an office for nine years was littered with boxes and wastebaskets, waiting for the trashman.

The spacious corner apartment on the floor above, where he had spent many happy months with Phyllis, was vacant, awaiting new tenants.

Shayne stood in the middle of the muss and rumpled his bristly red hair. Lying atop one of the boxes was a short piece of rubber hose which he had snatched from a girl’s mouth: the Lenham case. A fake kidnap note that had sent a woman into screaming hysteria was torn to bits in the wastebasket: the Hanson case. A pile of telegrams, scribbled notations, the blackjack wrested from Pug Myers that stormy night down on the Florida Keys—relics which had once held such deep significance were now mere rubbish.

There was a butcher knife which he had picked up from the floor of Phyllis Brighton’s bedroom after finding Mrs. Brighton in bed with her throat slit. The knife was sticky with human blood that night, but now it shone clean and keen-edged lying beside the rubber hose in the box marked for a scrap heap.

Shayne’s eyes kept going back to the knife. It marked the beginning of something that was ended.

He swore savagely and swept up a glass of cognac from the desk, took a deep drink and chased it with ice water. It was Monnet cognac, his last carefully guarded bottle. He had been saving it for a special occasion. Well, this was a special occasion. His suitcase was packed. He was saying good-by to Miami, giving up everything he had built over a period of nine years.

He said, “To hell with it,” aloud. He emptied the glass and poured another drink from the squat bottle, then held the bottle up to the light. A little better than half full. Might be enough to get drunk on, if he weren’t sure he would never be able to get drunk again.

The wall telephone shrilled as he set the bottle down. He turned to glower at the faithful instrument which had brought him so much good news and so much bad news during the years.

He lifted the glass of cognac and carried it to the west window, ignoring the insistent ringing of the phone. His right thumb and forefinger gently massaged the lobe of his left ear as he stood gazing at the bright sheen on the gray-purple waters of Biscayne Bay. It was noon, and trade winds waved the fronds of coco-palms and sent tiny ripples shimmering across the water.

The telephone stopped ringing after a while. He sipped the smooth aged cognac slowly and thoughtfully. He listened absently to the elevator stopping at the first floor and heard footsteps in the hallway.

The footsteps stopped at his open door. Shayne stubbornly kept his back turned. His eyes were morose and his jaws were tightly clenched as he stared steadily through the window at the familiar scene.

Timothy Rourke’s voice spoke from the doorway, a determinedly cheerful voice. “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?”

Without turning his head, Shayne growled, “I didn’t want to be bothered.”

“Getting drunk?” Rourke walked into the room, followed by another man. Rourke stared around the disordered room, his lean face grim. His body had the hard leanness of a racing greyhound; his eyes were intelligent and kindly. He was an old hand on the Miami
News,
had covered Shayne’s cases for nine years and garnered many scoops.

Shayne said, “I’d get drunk if I could.” He did not turn from the window.

Rourke moved up behind him and clamped his hand on the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re nuts, Mike. Going through all this old stuff—raking up memories.”

Shayne said, “I’m through. I’m going back to New York.”

Rourke’s thin fingers bit into his shoulder. “I brought you a client.”

“I told you I was through.”

“You’re nuts,” Rourke said again, emphatically. “You need to get to work. Hell, Mike, it’s been months since Phyl—”

“I’m getting out of Miami,” Shayne interrupted harshly.

“Sorry,” Rourke said, then went on in a brisk tone. “That’s a good idea, Mike. Get the hell out of town for a while. Now this client—”

“I’m not taking any clients.” Shayne gestured jerkily toward some bits of paper strewn on the floor. “There’s my Florida license.”

“Fair enough.” Tim Rourke grinned. “Precisely why I have brought my friend to you.”

Shayne turned slowly. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a bristle of red beard on his face. He looked past Rourke and met the uneasy eyes of a slight, mild-featured man who wore a pince-nez and a harassed frown. His double-breasted business coat was buttoned tightly, and he wore a stiff collar and a bow tie.

Rourke said, “This is Joe Little, Mike.
J. P.
Little,” he added, with emphasis on the initials. “Meet Mike Shayne, Joe. He’s just the man you need.”

J. P. Little took a step forward and hesitantly held out his hand. His hand dropped to his side and he closed his thin lips firmly over whatever he planned to say in greeting.

Tim Rourke laughed with false heartiness and said, “Mike’s just a diamond in the rough, Joe.” He turned to Shayne. “Now see here, Mike, Mr. Little has a case that’s made to order. Just the sort of thing you go for—name your own fee and all expenses paid. Right, Joe?” He beamed upon the smaller man.

“I am prepared to pay any fee in moderation,” Mr. Little answered, and his Adam’s apple disappeared for an instant below his stiff collar.

“There you are, Mike. You want to shake the Florida sand out of your shoes. You need a case to take your mind off—things. How does New Orleans strike you?”

Shayne shrugged. “New Orleans is all right.” His tone intimated that New Orleans was the only thing that was all right.

Rourke hastily dumped a pile of rubbish from a chair and shoved it toward his friend, emptied another of a tier of boxes and took it for himself. “Mr. Little is a magazine editor,” he confided to Shayne. “He’s in Miami to interview an author about an important serial.”

Shayne hooked his right hip over a corner of the desk and said, “Honest to God, Tim, I’m not ready to take a case.”

“You can help a friend of mine. At least you can listen to what he has to say, dammit. Go ahead and tell him about it, Joe.”

Mr. Little took off his pince-nez and polished the lenses. His pale-blue eyes squinted at Shayne, then at Rourke. “If Mr. Shayne is not interested—”

“He’ll get interested,” Rourke promised. “Go ahead. I’d like to hear all of it, myself. You’ve given me only a bare outline.”

“Very well.” Mr. Little replaced his glasses and stopped squinting. “It’s about my daughter, Barbara. She’s—I’m afraid she may be in danger—in desperate need of protection.”

“Your daughter is in New Orleans?” Shayne bent forward, then scowled, angered at himself for showing interest.

“Yes. I’d better start at the beginning. You see, Barbara is the reckless type. She is headstrong and willful. I don’t understand her at all.” He made a gesture of defeat with his well-kept hands. “Perhaps it has been my fault for having lost contact with her. Her mother died when she was a baby. I’ve tried to be both mother and father, but—the press of business—” He stopped talking and held his mouth tight for a full minute.

Shayne looked at his watch. “Thus far you’ve managed to tell us you have a headstrong daughter.”

J. P. Little fidgeted in his chair. “It’s difficult to tell you,” he murmured, then continued more firmly. “Barbara is ambitious to be a writer, has been since she was a young girl in her teens. But I’m afraid she isn’t a good writer.” He allowed himself a wan smile. “I’ve discouraged her. She resented that. She felt I was unfairly critical of her work. A month ago she tried to commit suicide. She left a note saying that she was a failure and there was no use going on.” He lifted pale, worried eyes to Shayne’s hard gray gaze.

“How old is your daughter now?” Shayne asked.

“Twenty-three. It was absurd, of course. A failure at twenty-three.” Mr. Little shook his head and sighed deeply.

“Go on about the suicide attempt,” Shayne demanded.

“I had brought her to Miami for a rest. She disappeared the next day. All her personal effects were left behind—with the suicide note.” He nervously smoothed his thinning hair, and added, “It was ghastly for me.”

Rourke, who had straddled the straight chair, was sitting facing its back, his pointed chin nestled in his palms. He said brightly, “You remember, Mike. There was a story in the papers. They dragged a girl’s body from the bay a couple of days later and I went with Joe to the morgue to see if he could identify her. I wrote a hell of a story about it. One of the most human interest things I ever did.”

Shayne shook his head. “A month ago? I wasn’t paying much attention to the papers then.” He turned to J. P. Little. “And it wasn’t your daughter?”

The editor shuddered. “No. I’ll never forget going into that morgue. But—it wasn’t Barbara. A few days later I received a letter from her posted in New Orleans. She had run away on a sudden impulse after discovering that she couldn’t take her own life. She was determined, though, to live as she pleased, she said. She had taken an assumed name and was going to submit her stories under that pseudonym. She had, you see, a feeling that because she was my daughter, other editors were prejudiced against her.”

Shayne was bent forward again, making no effort to hide his interest. His eyes were very bright. He looked at Joseph P. Little, and the ghost of a grin flitted over his gaunt face. He said, “A twenty-three-year-old girl can take care of herself in New Orleans if she’s as headstrong as you say. What the hell are you worrying about? Leave her alone to work out her own destiny. Maybe she can write.”

“Take care of herself—in the French Quarter, Mr. Shayne?” His colorless face flushed.

Shayne laughed shortly. “She can go to hell there if she wants to. Sure. Just like she can on Park Avenue. If you’re looking for a goddam chaperon—”

“Hold it, Mike,” Rourke protested. “You haven’t heard the meat of the story yet.”

“If it’s got any meat, why the hell doesn’t he slice some off?”

Mr. Little drew himself up from a slumped position and sat with stiff dignity. “It’s difficult to discuss, and you don’t make it any easier, Mr. Shayne.” He hesitated, but Shayne made it no easier, so Little continued. “Babs is—I’m afraid she is becoming a drug addict.”

Shayne scowled and rubbed his angular jaw. “What makes you think that?”

“Barbara had a severe illness a few years ago. She was in great pain—agony—for weeks. The attending physician gave her morphine to ease the pain. Later, when she was well again we discovered that she was craving the drug. There was an interval during which I despaired. Then the craving left her, apparently. She lived happily and normally for a time. Only a few months ago I noted recurring symptoms. She had periods of deep depression which were followed by periods of abnormally high spirits and effervescent gaiety.” Mr. Little’s pale, sad eyes looked down at his hands which were clasped tightly.

“That is not unusual for young girls,” Shayne said. “What other proof did you have?”

“Mr. Shayne,” said Mr. Little, “one can easily tell a narcotic user by the eyes, particularly when one is as well acquainted with the user as I am with my daughter. There is a brightness shining in the eyes, but the brightness appears to be covered by a mist. I cannot explain it exactly. It is like a glow shining through a thin fog. Then there is a dullness of the mind, and a nervousness of the body.” He paused for a moment, appealing to Shayne for understanding.

Shayne said, soberly, “Go on.”

“I am convinced that Barbara made her suicide attempt while under the influence of drugs—or during a period of acute craving,” Mr. Little continued, “and I am positive that she is using the drugs in New Orleans. Her letters are proof of her condition.”

“What sort of letters?” Shayne asked bluntly.

“She writes very queerly. She refuses to address me as her father. She signs her letters ‘Margo,’ the name she is living under—her pseudonym, Margo Macon. She writes to me as a stranger.”

“How is she fixed for money?”

“I send her a weekly sum.”

Shayne said, “You don’t need a detective. The police in New Orleans can clear up the case.” With a wave of his big hand he lifted his hip from the table and stood up.

“It isn’t that simple,” Mr. Little said in alarm.

“Why not?” Shayne stopped on his way to the liquor cabinet where the bottle of Monnet was hidden.

“She may be in great danger,” Mr. Little said. “Hourly danger. I need someone I can trust. I know how the police handle such matters. A routine investigation. It might be days before they got around to it.”

Shayne said, “Danger? What are you holding out on me?” His eyes were hot with anger.

Mr. Little rose from his chair, but his body trembled violently, and he sank slowly into it again. “I can’t—tell you. It’s too horrible.”

“If you want help from me, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about.”

Mr. Little’s tongue moistened his lips. “If you could go to New Orleans and contact her—gain her confidence—establish yourself so you could keep a guard over her—”

Timothy Rourke’s nose was trembling like a bloodhound’s. “Mike is right,” he told the editor. “If you can’t trust him with all the angles, how can you expect him to help you?”

“It isn’t that I don’t trust him,” Mr. Little said in despair.

Shayne snorted. He glared at Rourke and said, “Thanks for dropping in. Don’t bother to close the door on your way out. I’ve got several things to do before catching a train for New York.”

Rourke pulled himself up from his straddled position on the chair. “Sorry things didn’t work out.”

Mr. Little made no move to get up. His face had paled until its hue was a yellowish green. He said, in a husky whisper, “Of course you cannot handle the situation without knowing the whole truth.”